Namesake
by Gale
Summary: Enter Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts. What can Harry make of the rumors floating about that someone is murdering deatheaters? What great secret lies in the namesake of Slytherin that can unite the houses and end the war? Updated! RR plz.
1. Mounted Executioner

Namesake

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

*Written by Gale*

Disclaimer - This is my first attempt at a book 6 fanfic, and it's probably not a terribly good one. I like to take ideas that are overdone and try to improve on them. You tell me if I managed. Fair warning, however, I'm terrible as far as horror goes. So mind the first chapter.

Chapter #1: Mounted Executioner

The Dark Mark burned. 

He pushed a layer of hair out of his sweat and rain sheened face. It hadn't stopped for hours, and in spite of his better judgment, the part of his mind that told him it would not do him any good to keep the Dark Lord waiting, there he sat, pressed into the shadows of some dark alleyway, too afraid to even move. Part of him hoped -- hoped more than anything -- that the Dark Lord might grow impatient and send some others to find him. Another half prayed that the Ministry would do their job well and hunt him down. Either way, he'd have hell to pay when they brought him back, but he felt even _that _would be better than --

His ears pricked up, and blood finally seeped from between his teeth from biting down on his lip in tension. He knew he'd heard something, movement somewhere nearby, and his eyes strained for anything in the very alley that might do him harm. Nothing. 

Hogsmeade was definitely the wrong place to be lurking at the time, and truthfully he'd had no intention of ending up back here. Apparating was impossible, since the moment he tried he knew the Ministry would be right on top of him. So he'd been at it on foot for nearly a week now. He was starving, in desperate need of a bath, and by this point maybe even a doctor. Fate and fear were clever friends, and in his sad attempts to possibly skip the country, here he was again, crouching and whimpering like a baby in some unmarked section of darkness. 

Senses drawn to the brink of insane paranoia, he gasped and curled in on himself again, eyes round and terrified. The sound was distant, but there. A resounding beating against the cobbled street, like footsteps. Slow, purposeful.

__

It's found me, he thought, feeling a lump of pain develop in his throat. 

He knew it would do him no good to remain here. If it got near enough, it would catch him. 

…But how could even a Deatheater run from Death, itself?

He'd managed for this long, hadn't he?

Closer now.

__

…clop clop clop clop…

Fingers clenching at the sides of his robes, he forced himself to retreat toward the other end of the alley. _I can't do this anymore. If I survive the night, I'll turn myself in tomorrow. But please…whoever can hear me, please don't let it get me first…_

Louder. 

__

Clop clop clop clop.

Distinctly, one could tell they were hoof beats. 

His breath caught in him again as he stumbled, barely avoiding a line of crates that'd been stacked against one of the buildings. He rounded clumsily, one boot heel sliding across the muddy walkway and taking the rest of him down. The sound of a feline screech set out his own cry of alarm, and he stared disbelievingly as a mangy and rain-soaked cat hissed and padded its way back into its shelter between the crates. His ears strained in panic to reach past the heavy beating of his near-to-failing heart.

The sound had stopped. 

A bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, but he found himself to be one of the only things on earth not touched by its illumination. Its twin streaked across the skin an instant later, and what became apparent was the massive shadow he was sitting in. The notion that drew along with it made futile tears stand in his eyes. He closed them, body shifting to accommodate a second wind. He dug his fingers into the muddy earth, and at the moment the sound of a throaty whicker touched his ears, he was on his feet and running again. 

A second, enraged cry flitted after him in the rain, and his heart hammered ever faster when again, the first sound returned. Only now the hoof beats ran faster, muffled but intensified with bursts of water. His bones rattled at a more drawn _screeeeeeeech, _blade on stone, and even on the ground he dashed upon he could see that sparks were being drawn up.

The buildings now behind him, his hand shot into his robes to draw out his wand, hoping he could cast _some _spell, any spell that mind ward it off. It occurred to him then that Apparating might be his one solution. The ministry would find him, and right now, he could take Azkaban over this. 

His hand groped and found nothing, however…

__

Oh dear Merlin, how could I drop it…? Why now, **why now? **

His mounted pursuer drew to a halt at the mouth of the alley. A pair of blazing red eyes narrowed at him behind a well-placed cowl. Heavy robes of black hung down in wet streaks from their wearer, blending in with an equally jet steed, who stamped impatiently at its master's command to pause. In one hand, propped against the rider's side, it held a massive, glistening scythe, much in the tradition of any death depicted in ancient Muggle (and some Wizard) lore. 

He gaped at the sight of his own wand in its other hand, and his instinct to run away could not actually reach past his brain until he saw the delicate instrument snap in two between his enemy's fingers. 

But by then it was too late. He gave a cry as its other arm swung, and the glint of lightning cresting its blade was the last he saw. 

His scream tore through the streets of Hogsmeade, and the dotting of lights in the houses began to appear in the night. Braver wizards ventured outside, wands drawn and ready. The sound of retreating hoof beats could be heard in the distance, but fell on deaf ears, as all who emerged from their homes could only bring themselves to stare in horror at the dismembered heap it left behind. 

And somewhere, miles away from this atrocity, far away from the Wizarding World entire, the Boy Who Lived slept the slumber of the troubled.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Early Holiday

Namesake

-A Harry Potter Fanfic-

*Written by Gale*

Note - I wrote about this much on the first try, maybe a bit more, then I got stuck, and despite my great wishes to maintain Rowling's style and her way of setting up events, I'm finding myself at a loss. I don't think I'm managing quite as well as I'd hoped, so brace for suckage. Once again, I have no beta. This is not the finished product. Enjoy.

Chapter #2: Early Holiday

Slowly but surely, summertime was winding into the last week before a day only grudgingly recognized by the entirety of the inhabitants of Number 4 Privet Drive -- all save for one, whom the day was dedicated to. Harry Potter knew better than to get his hopes up about receiving much from his relatives on his birthday, even if they had taken extra steps to stay out of his way this summer. He could only expect an old piece of clothing from his cousin Dudley's overstretched wardrobe, a command to stay in his room for the evening, and a that would be that. Harry supposed he preferred it this way, that Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and _especially _Dudley stayed away from him, seeing as how he'd not returned to their un-obsequious abode in the best of spirits, himself. 

During the school year prior to his "vacation," Harry Potter found himself smack dab in the middle of all sorts of trouble going on at Hogwarts and in the Wizarding World in general. Voldemort had risen again just over a year ago. Harry was nearly expelled because the school's new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a frog faced woman by name of Dolores Umbridge, set a couple Dementors on him, then proceeded to torture him for the entire year following. 

The worst of it, however, something that hit him time and again when he sat down to write letters to his friends, was that in the previous year, his godfather, escaped convict Sirius Black, had died. And more so than it had been for Cedric Diggory, it was his fault. Entirely his fault. Voldemort's Deatheaters had set a trap to lure him to the Ministry. He took the bait, thinking Sirius was in danger, and when his godfather, along with many other members of Dumbledore's secret Order of the Phoenix, came to pull him out of a jam, he paid for it with his life. 

As pathetic as it was, this had become an ever-recurrent theme in his letters to Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. He would answer their questions about what he'd been doing for the summer, how he was, how Hedwig was, ask a few of his own, even. But always, at the end, something about Sirius would come up. _I miss Sirius, _was becoming a popular one. _He'd still be here if it weren't for me, _was another. By now, his two best friends were at a loss, themselves. After all, even he knew that it could only go on so long before they ran out of things they could say to him. He found himself asking more questions to make up for it, though, feeling that the only way he was going to get through each day was by immersing himself in the doings of others. 

When he wasn't reading or writing letters, of course, he was downstairs, watching the news. Uncle Vernon, last year's incident with Dudley and the Dementors fresh in his mind, did not ask questions anymore. He had at first, for whatever reason guardedly interested in anything that might have happened during Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts, but Petunia eventually silenced him with a kind of rigid severity that Harry thought had only been reserved for him. 

Dudley was slowly packing on more pounds, as he'd finally discovered an ingenious way to cheat on his diet. Harry made the mistake of informing his Aunt and Uncle the year before that chocolate would make him feel better after the attack from the Dementors. Indeed, it did, but now, whenever Dudley desired sweets, all he had to do was feign sickness and say "Mother, I feel _very _faint. And depressed. I don't quite think I've gotten over you-know-what yet," and of course, his mother bought it hook line and sinker. Harry was faintly surprised at his cunning in the situation, however, because Dudley got smart enough to realize he couldn't do it constantly without getting found out. So once a week, Harry would wander downstairs into the kitchen and see Dudley with a bar of chocolate pressed into each of his porky hands. 

This was much the way Harry discovered him when he went down for breakfast the day before his birthday. It was a Saturday, and Dudley was dressed in his now slightly undersized leather jacket, (looking less tough and more like a pig wearing biker clothes), ready to go roaming with his gang of buddies after breakfast. That was another thing that changed because of the incident. When he was home from school, his parents were quite vehement in keeping him within sight. He moaned a lot about it, but for once, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept their feet down about it. On the weekends, they allowed him to go out with his friends, but only if he stayed in a group. Considering chocolate to be their talisman, now, Aunt Petunia made sure he had at least one bar in his pocket, just to be sure he didn't start to feel woozy while he was out and about. 

Dudley sneered insolently at him over the table from behind brown smudges and stains on his lips, which hardly improved Harry's earlier observation of his swinishness. 

"Best be careful, Diddykins," Harry muttered as he took it upon himself to fix a bagel, taking a short glance back at his portly cousin in order to register the pending rage in his eyes, and added, "You heard what my friends said at King's Cross," which killed whatever anger might have been there and replaced it with fear. He had to admit he took some small bit of perverse pleasure in making his older cousin squirm, but later he would feel bad about it, and he knew it. 

No one deserved being put in his place more than Dudley Dursley -- well, no one save Draco Malfoy, maybe -- but Harry could already hear Hermione's voice in his head. _"It's all well and good to get at someone who has it coming, Harry, but if it takes you down to their level, it's not worth it." _

"Potter!"

Even from his end of the hall, he could see Uncle Vernon stamping toward the kitchen, Aunt Petunia trailing behind him in a troublesome, nosy manner like she always did whenever Harry had commit some atrocity he was not yet aware of. Resolving that he would have no chance of a quiet breakfast, Harry tore a piece of his bagel and shoved it into his mouth, feeling sure that would be the only bit he'd get for a while. He noted over their shoulders when they entered the room that the front door was standing open a crack, wholly unusual and remarkable given his relatives' propensity to have any and all things in their proper place. 

He could not be troubled with that for long, however, as no sooner than he got a glance did he find one of Uncle Vernon's fat fingers in his face. "You said you wouldn't be going to visit your freak friends until next week, boy," the tubby man fumed accusingly. 

"Yes," he confirmed. "I did, and as far as I know the plan hasn't--"

"Don't give me cheek, boy. Just _send them away before the neighbors see them." _

"Them?" he echoed. 

Vernon pointed angrily for the door, and old instinct had Harry's feet going there long before his brain registered. Given his Uncle's reaction, and by the time the situation fully processed itself, he could only expect to see so many people behind the door. 

__

And here I thought the next week of my life was going to be dull, he thought as he grasped the door handle and pulled it back.

The front walk was completely empty. 

Harry quirked an eyebrow in surprise, wondering if it were at all possible that Uncle Vernon had finally lost his marbles. "There's no one there," he called over his shoulder.

Vernon Dursley muttered something along the lines of "probably got the right idea and shoved off," before barking back, "Shut the door, then!" which was cut off by a startling and resounding 

__

CRACK!!

that summoned cries of alarm from every inhabitant in the household, even Harry, since it came up directly behind him. He slammed the door shut and rounded in alarm, and was a great deal less surprised than he should have been to set eyes upon two very smug looking Weasley Brothers.

"All right, Harry?" 

TO BE CONTINUED….


	3. Bad Business

Namesake

A Harry Potter fan fiction

*Written by Gale*

Disclaimer - You all know the legal mumbo jumbo. Considering Rowling is one of the richest people in Britain right now, I doubt my one story is going to change things much, especially since I'm not getting anything but you, the reviewers, in return. That is payment enough, of course ;) Let's all continue to bear in mind that this story is still in draft form. I've not done anything to revise or check for inconsistencies. Just bear with me. 

Chapter 3: Bad Business

Well, this summer, for Harry Potter, was surely and quickly shaping up to be the strangest yet. Before extracting the Twins' reasoning for coming to his house, Harry found himself, his trunk, and Hedwig's cage on the curb. His aunt and uncle, taking full advantage of the Weasley's early arrival, had decided he could end his vacation early and get out of their hair. Harry suspected that if there were any major concerns with his leaving the house ahead of schedule, then a letter would have appeared by owl to squash any notions the Dursley's had of an extra couple weeks to themselves. He couldn't complain. Anywhere was better than number 4 Privet Drive, especially if it involved Fred and George. 

Of course, that was what Harry thought until his two companions realized they could not apparate with him back to Hogsmeade. Not to be bothered, Harry led them down the street, luggage in tow to Mrs. Figg's house, a silent member of the Order of the Phoenix and a squib. Since he had been very young, the Dursleys sent him there whenever they wished to go on Holiday. Upon hearing their predicament, she saw no trouble in allowing them the use of her fireplace. Fred apparated away, then reappeared again moments later with a jar of floo powder. 

"Right then," he said jovially. "You'll be staying with the two of us for a while, Harry -- just until Mum comes to fetch you."

Harry stared at him a moment, perplexed by the statement. He remembered that Fred and George had been expelled the year before by Professor Umbridge, and at the time they had enough money stored away to open their own joke shop. The last he had heard, however, they were still living with the rest of their family. "You live by yourselves now?"

"Umhum," murmured George. "We live in the shop."

__

I'll bet Mrs. Weasley **loves** that, Harry thought mildly. "So why did you two come to get me so early?"

George feigned a hurt expression, "Honestly, Harry Potter, is missing your company not reason enough?"

He'd heard that tone before, and were he Molly Weasley, he imagined he would be shaking his head sternly, hands pressed to his hips, trying to decide whether this attempt at avoiding the subject was deplorable or just too phony to take seriously. As it was, he managed a smile. "Really. Why?"

Fred shrugged, "Business has been slow. We wanted some company and Lee is off visiting relations in Canada. Off we go now." He held the open jar our to George, who grasped a handful and stepped into the gaping fireplace. 

George Weasley grinned at his brother, shot a wink in Mrs. Figg's direction, and dropped the powder at his feet, "Seventeen Dippet Street!" And he vanished in a flare of green fire. 

"You next, Harry," Fred said. 

After a moment of debating how his luggage would be brought along, Harry picked up Hedwig's cage, assured that Fred would bring the trunk along with him, and prostrated himself where George had been standing moments before. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Figg," he said politely. 

Mrs. Figg warmly smiled. "Take care, Harry Potter."

"I surely will." 

With simple method and incantation -- spoken properly this time -- Harry found himself standing in a stone chamber lit and resounding with shelves and boxes and tables littered with all sorts of delights. Class cases held packages of many joke candies Harry had sampled for himself in his years at Hogwarts, and yet there were still others he had never seen before. There were also trick brooms, self-writing quills, magical spectacles to help the wearer appear quite awake when he or she might in fact be taking an afternoon nap…

"You two have been busy," Harry mused. 

__

BANG! 

Fred slid Harry's trunk over his way and set the jar on one of the few open spaces left on the tabletops. "What do you think, Harry?" he asked. 

"I'm wondering how it is that business is slow."

George shrugged, "Not for lack of hard work, that's for sure. Not many people have been doing business at all for the last few weeks. Specifically not after midday."

"Why after midday?"

"George," interjected Fred, "He probably hasn't heard. Do we have a copy of the morning paper lying around here somewhere?"

"Somewhere."

"Well then stop mucking about and show it to Harry, then."

"I think it's nearer to you, dear brother."

Fred sank down into a chair and raised an eyebrow as the cushion made a rustling sound. He stood, looked down where he had seated himself, and his face lit up. "Well I'll be. So it is!" He grabbed up a now rumpled copy of the Daily Prophet and tossed it at Harry, who had to quickly set Hedwig's cage down in order to catch it. "I knew there was a reason I allowed you to share the womb with me."

"Because it was no fun to just kick something that never kicked back."

"That might be it, too, but now that I think about it…"

No matter how amusing the conversation was, Harry lost all interest in their debate once he laid eyes on the Prophet's headline:

****

MINISTRY IN PANIC: 3RD MURDER IN TWO WEEKS

Officials from the Ministry of Magic were called to the quiet town of Hogsmeade to appease the hysteria therein, caused by the discovery of a body in the town square the night before. Witnesses, who emerged from their homes at the sound of screams, have claimed to have spotted the killer fleeing the scene of the crime on horseback, pictured below As with the two cases that were detailed in last Monday's print, the corpse had been severed of its head. However, this, like the first body, was so heavily damaged that the victim could not be identified. As also with the last two victims, the upper left arm possessed the Dark Mark.

As many already know, the only identified body among the three Deatheaters killed was that of the wife of former School Board Administrator, Lucius Malfoy, who is now incarcerated in Azkaban Prison. Narcissa Malfoy was not identified as a follower of He Who Shall Not Be Named until she was discovered dead not far from her home. After her husband's arrest for breaking into the Ministry and attempted murder, the Malfoy homestead was home to several angry protests against the Malfoy family. Those who marched on the house, just days before Narcissa Malfoy supposedly died, have been questioned and ruled out as suspects, says Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge. It has been reported that the son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, has been taken into protective custody and is currently being treated at St. Mungo's Hospital…

Harry paused halfway through the passage to give the front picture a glance. It was not a photograph, but a very carefully rendered sketch of a robed shadow sitting astride a massive horse. Its being drawn indicated enough, that whoever had been seen was gone too quickly for a picture to be taken. "Does Professor Dumbledore know about this?" Harry asked dazedly. "Do you know?" Despite wanting to listen for an answer, all noise seemed to be drowned out of his head as his gaze wandered down to a smaller photo between the columns. 

In a crowd of several men and women in ministry robes, the photo showed one spot of pandemonium in the center. Some form -- which blessedly had been blurred for some of the more weaker-stomached audiences -- lay still and lifeless, but Harry's attention swerved more importantly to the individual battling frantically with the larger men holding him back. 

  
Draco Malfoy had undergone a growth spurt in the summer, whether by natural ends or because he was not re-transfigured quite well after his first experience as a mollusk at the end of the school year. He was nearly the size of the officials around him, but was almost uncommonly thin and wiry, now. His hair was disheveled and drenched in the falling rain, bangs slapping wetly against the sides of his face as he flew in the face of his subdoers, so to speak. All the baby fat had drained from his cheeks, and as he struggled there, mouth open in a silent scream of either anguish or anger, he looked more like some crooked, embittered old man than a boy soon to enter his sixth year at Hogwarts. 

Harry Potter knew that face. He'd seen it many times in his own dreams. Felt it even. 

Anytime he dreamt of seeing his own mother murdered in front of him, he too had struggled -- against his own consciousness, maybe -- to stop it from happening. To scream his spirit upon it and bore it from his mind. 

And in that moment, Harry felt some small swell of pity rise up for his long time enemy, but part of him, an ugly side which he'd tried so hard to keep bottled up in times of turmoil of late, almost sneered at the thought that now Malfoy knew how it felt. If that wasn't enough, then…

"Oy, Harry. You all right?"

His head snapped up in surprise, only now realizing that the Twins had been standing over him for the last moment or so trying to get his attention. "I'm sorry, what?"

"George said it's bizarre, isn't it? Some nutter out snuffing Deatheaters like insects." Fred shuddered, "Gives lots of people around here the creeps. Me included. And there's still more that are bloody _supporting _whoever this maniac is. I mean, I'm the last person to want to go and sign up under He Who Must Not Be Named, but that's a lousy way to die for anyone."

Harry nodded slowly, "Yes, I suppose you're right." He set the paper aside and looked around. "Did you two see last night's victim?"

George had the nerve to look surprised. "Who, us? We'd only just woken up when we decided to come and fetch you. By then the Ministry'd cleared everything off. If we'd known it'd happened before then, we might have gotten up -- if only to go and make faces at Percy."

"Yeah. And Mum's been owling us day and night to come back to the Burrow since this whole mess started. Worried sick, she is."

"And you haven't gone?" asked Harry.

"Nah," the twins stated in unison.

"Can't just abandon the business no matter how tight things are," said George. 

"Besides," Fred added, "Only people that are in danger are Deatheaters."

After seeking out a place to sit down, it occurred to Harry Potter that he should send a letter to Ron and Hermione. He wondered why neither had brought this up in their own writings, but part of him already knew the answer. With all his talk about Sirius, they probably thought this was the last thing he needed to hear. Of course, they were partly right. 

That did not really matter, though. Whether he liked it or not, Harry had grown accustomed to knowing that if something bad came up in the summer, then it would stick with him all year-round. 

This was only the beginning.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	4. Called Back to the Nest

Namesake

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Written by Gale

Disclaimer - You know the drill. I don't own anybody.

Author's Note - It took a disgusting amount of time to get this new chapter out, and I am going to try and move things a little faster by July it will be kind of pointless won't it? This will be an AU then. Everything still stands. This is a draft, and I'm rusty. Revisions will be made. Concrit and any feedback is appreciated.

Chapter #4: Called Back to the Nest

To say that Molly Weasley "fussed" would have been using far too simple a word for her condition. Harry was not the least bit surprised to discover that news traveled quickly to the mother of his best friend and the rest of the family, and he and the twins were alone a mere two hours before the little woman came stamping out of the fireplace, face as red as her hair. Fred and George had the nerve to look stunned. Harry remembered the clock hanging in the kitchen in the Burrow that told Molly where her children and husband were, and what they were up to, at all times. That probably could have indicated lots, but it wouldn't have been a shock to discover that Molly had some latent power to sense when her intervention might be needed. She was a mother, after all.

Needless to say, there she and her husband Arthur were, the latter doing his very best to calm his near-hysterical spouse, but she was far too intent upon giving the twins a lecture that not even a Howler could do justice. Arthur Weasley looked tired, his graying hair stringy and disheveled; his face, like his wife's, was smudged with soot from the quick travel.

"Are you both completely _mad?" _Molly demanded.

Fred and his brother were at least wise enough to know when not to show they knew that her anger would die out eventually. "Now Mum, we "

"Do you have any idea how _dangerous _this is for Harry? Bringing him out here with no protection after all these murders and things…"

Harry felt his stomach drop with guilt. The home of the Dursleys had been a place he had to go to, despite his dislike of his family, for it was one of the only places where he was truly safe from Voldemort and his followers.

Arthur Weasley cleared his throat when his wife trailed off, seemingly while she thought up some other reasons why their decision to bring Harry out to Hogsmeade could trigger the Apocalypse. Knowing her, those reasons could range from lack of proper food and comfort to how sleeping in a joke shop could somehow lead to his head falling off. "Now Molly, dearest, I don't think…"

"Not. _Now. _Arthur," she said tersely. She had to have been in that moment the angriest that Harry'd ever seen her. However, Fred and George did not seem to be cowering as much as they should have. Perhaps so many years of Angry Mollies finally wore their fear factor down to nothing. Harry had to admit that he felt the same way about the Dursleys nowadays. "And I'll have you know, I'm not the only one who thinks this is foolishness," she went on, holding up a folded piece of parchment in her hand, "This is a letter from Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry, you have the choice of either going back to your relatives or staying in Grimmauld Place. But you can't stay here."

Harry felt his blood run cold at that. He did not wish to return to the Dursleys (nor was he sure they would let him back in), but the thought of going back to Grimmauld Place sent literal bolts of pain up along his spine. On one hand, the idea excited him, to be able to explore again, and perhaps even connect himself to some more of his Godfather's things, find something to salvage his memory of him. On the other, he did not want such a close reminder of Sirius' passing. He could already imagine himself in his waking hours chasing through the darkened beaten hallways of the estate, searching for a man who was no longer there and could never be again.

Molly's brow creased in worry, possibly regret. Watching her now, he realized then that he was not the only person he knew that mourned Sirius. A few seconds, and he could already see her eyes glistening. She reached up and brushed away a few escaping tears fretfully, determined not to let herself lose her authoritative presence over her sons. She spoke gently. "I know that may be a hard decision, Harry dear, but it wouldn't be for long anyhow. Dumbledore has told me that you can come and stay at the Burrow in a week, if you like."

"No," he interjected, nodding to himself without even thinking. "I wouldn't mind staying there, I think. Who else is there?"

The frown shifted into a nervous if not assenting smile. "Albus has been coming and going a lot, I have been told. But Miss Tonks and Remus have been there quite frequently, too."

Harry nodded. It'd never occurred to him to write Lupin. Now that he was reminded, however, the former DADA professor his favorite made no attempts to contact him, either. He must have had lots to do, of course, what with being in the Order and all. With it now public that Voldemort had risen again, and with these new killings, much should have been going on.

It was easier thinking that than to think he was being avoided.

Shifting his hands nervously, he was finally reminded that he had a letter in his hands. He unrolled the parchment, swallowing with apprehension. Part of him had longed for some word from the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The year had ended so tensely, strung with grief and frustration, and some assurance from the old wizard any kind.

Harry,

Notwithstanding the disturbing occurrences taking place here in the Wizarding World, I am pleased to know that we may correspond on more positive terms than those of the previous Summer. I trust your trip with Fred and George Weasley has been pleasant, and I am sorry that you may not remain with them in their establishment longer. I am sure you understand why. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks are waiting to greet you at the House, and I am told that Miss Granger will be arriving there in a few days, so you needn't be without your peers for long. Molly Weasley will come to you within the week to give to you your supply list and also the result of your Ordinary Wizarding Levels.

I will come and go from time to time, and if you need to speak to me about anything, all you need do is ask.

With Regards,

Headmaster Dumbledore

Harry frowned; he'd forgotten entirely about the OWLs, which would decide what kind of classes he would be taking this year and possibly what career he would have once he graduated. With that reminder, and with the promise that his friends would join him soon, he felt sure that he would not get any sleep in the next couple days. There were no nightmares this time, and this summer, he did not have the threat of expulsion due to underage wizardry dogging his footsteps.

"I suppose I am ready to go anytime," he offered.

Molly looked relieved. "Before we take you there, would you like to join us at the Burrow for dinner, Harry dear?" she asked. "Dumbledore said it would be all right if you wanted to."

The prospect of a freshly cooked meal by Molly Weasley chased away any apprehension due to Grimmauld place, or even the results of his tests during fifth year. To be able to spend some time with Ron and Ginny, as well even the worst of moods could not deter some desire for that.

That, and he knew there wouldn't be much to speak for dinner-wise here at the shop, short of some jinxed candies by the looks of things. Judging by the hopeful, doe-like expressions of the twins, this had to be true.

"Have us home for a light repast, mum?" Fred asked, coming close and throwing a long arm around his mother's shoulders. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, and soon his brother followed suit, posting himself on her other side.

"We haven't had time to do groceries, what with picking up Harry and all," George added. "Would have been shameful hosts to just leave him by himself to run errands."

Molly regarded her two sons flatly, fighting a sour smile as she curled her own shorter arms around each of them in turn. "Only if you two will close shop and spend the weekend," she assented. "Everything is so quiet without the two of you, and you worry your poor mother."

Fred and George glanced at one another, sharing a grin as they agreed. Harry had to hide a smirk of his own, recalled that they were only just saying how they could not simply abandon their business. Such was their fickle nature when their stomachs were empty, after all.

"We haven't had any shoppers for a few days anyhow," George allowed.

"Taking the weekend off can't hurt," smiled Fred.

And just as quickly as the Weasley parents had come into the store, the tension seemed to be sucked out from the windows and the cracks in the walls. Arthur took a breath, relieved. "Well, that's settled, then." He gestured at the fireplace. "Let's hurry along, then. Lock up, boys; Harry? Are all of your things gathered together?"

"I think so." Harry strode to Hedwig's cage, which was stacked atop his trunk. He reached to pick up the copy of the Daily Prophet, his eye trained upon the screaming image of Draco Malfoy again, and again he did not know what to feel. Malfoy, one of perhaps six to ten students who could actually hold the name "pureblood", was through and through an insufferable git. It didn't feel right to allow himself even a self-important glower.

"All right, Harry?"

He looked up at Fred and folded the paper hurriedly. "May I borrow this?"

"Keep it," Fred replied with a shrug. "It's no trouble."

Harry folded the paper a second time and shoved it into his back pocket. He would read it more thoroughly later, and see if he could find anything else worth mulling over, too.

TO BE CONTINUED….


	5. Back to the Burrow

Namesake

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Written by Gale

Disclaimer - same goes. The characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm merely playing with them for the sake of my, and I hope your, amusement.

Author's Note - I think I'm starting to get better. Another longer chapter for you, that's not filler like the last one! Some plot twists, some inner musings, and just more stuff all around. I hope you enjoy it. (Thanks to Ryccachan for helping me with a few things!)

Chapter #5: Back to the Burrow

Although it had seemed that Molly and Arthur Weasley were intent upon hurrying Harry off to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible, he found that more time than he first expected could be spent at once of his favorite places on Earth, the Burrow. It was just coming to sunset outside, the countryside awash with an orange haze. It had rained earlier that day, and a ginger mist blurred the distant hills and trees with the artistic flourish of a painter's brush. Despite the thickly feel of the air, Ron and Ginny had more than the spirit to play a Quidditch scrimmage, now that they had Harry and the Twins to keep them company. To be true, Harry did not object to a chance to mount his broom again. Since his trip to Grimmauld Place would involve another flight accompanied by a guard again, it would be nice to have a few hours of practice in before another long journey.

The Weasley Family had been particularly quiet about the goings on in Hogsmeade. The dinner had been so pleasant that he hadn't the heart to bring it up. He was too afraid to even bring up Percy, who he was sure was continuing to be a prat, seeing as how earlier letters had indicated so. Everyone seemed too happy at the idea of a simple quiet dinner at home, and when Molly and Arthur followed the troupe of teenagers outside, Harry wondered if it was their desire to watch the fun that brought them out or a need to chase away the grim events of the outside world.

The Dursleys had always been the kind to pretend bad things were not happening. The worst of inconveniences that they ever talked about were neighbors who created trivial annoyances. This was different. The goings on here at the Burrow were not the same sterile, cold attempts at normalcy that his family was prone to.

This was surviving.

As it was, the newspaper and namely the photo from the Daily Prophet remained burned into the back of his mind with as much depth and permanence as the lightning bolt scar was cut into his forehead. He wanted to talk to Ron about Malfoy, only thinking that perhaps if he could hear his best friend's thoughts, he might be capable of forming his own on the situation without forming a sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach, a kind of nausea that he hadn't felt since the week of lines Professor Umbridge had forced him to write.

For now, he could only play along, and hope that perhaps he would have a few minutes alone with Ron before he had to leave.

Ginny was admirably sportsmanlike, allowing Harry the position of Seeker...until the lot of them realized there was no snitch to catch. There really weren't enough people to make a full team as it was.

"We might as well just throw the ball around," Ron suggested. "No positions. No points. Just play."

"Soon as I can find the ruddy thing!" they heard Fred shout from the Barn. "This is what happens when we're away for too long, George! Everything gets moved around!"

"Might be wasting your time, Fred; I think we nicked it when we moved to the shop!"

"Where did we put it there, then?"

"Why are you asking me? You packed it!"

Groaning at the ever-growing prospect that they would be without even a quaffle to add to the sport, Harry sank down nearer to the ground on his broom. Fred emerged from the barn, hands empty and looking defeated. "Doesn't mean we can't have a game of it, though. We can improvise."

"What do you suggest?" Ron asked flatly.

Fred grabbed his broom and alighted to join the group. Harry floated upwards to hear better. Soon the lot of them were perched in a floating circle over the garden.

"Whatever you decide!" they heard Molly call up from the ground, "you'll not be mucking about over my vegetables! Out to the field with you!"

George looked down and held up a hand to the side of his mouth. "Not to worry, Mum! We'll move!" Lowering his palm, he glanced at each in the group. "I have an idea." A slow smile climbed across his face as his gaze followed his siblings and Harry, stopping on Ron, who wisely looked afraid. George pointed a long finger at him. "You're the snitch."

Ron's wide eyes turned narrow with understanding, and a smile matching his brother's came about before he steered his broom down, zoomed under the lot of them and out toward the field. It took a moment to realize he was even gone, and admiring his speed, Harry swept after him, neck and neck with Ginny. They afforded one another a competitive glance before pressing on. Feeling oddly generous, he allowed the youngest Weasley child to press ahead of him, and when she caught up to her brother and tapped his shoulder, the two rounded to face the other approaching players. Harry slowed.

"You let me do that," said Ginny as she wrinkled her nose at him.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe..." He broke off with a gasp and dove sideways when she tore at him. He had to pull on the neck of his broom to curve away from the grassy earth, all the while knowing full well that Ginny was at his bristles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron was pursuing his brothers in a similar manner, and thus a game of "catch the snitch" degenerated into an elaborate go at "tag". Feeling the need, then, to appease Ginny and let her know he would not simply allow her to win, Harry monitored his speed as well as the way he was going, breaking into flashy loops and turns at any chance he could have in order to throw her off.

Once or twice he could afford glancing back toward the house, and in split seconds saw Molly and Arthur watching at the fence; Arthur's arm was wrapped comfortably around his wife, her head against his shoulder. The few glances he got helped to form a stronger image of it in his mind, and by the time Ginny managed to touch him, he was lost in the moment and the game, without worry, or age, or goal save to catch up to his target.

All in all, the high was better than the one he got playing Quidditch. Perhaps it was because playing this, he knew the only people who were watching and taking part were people he loved, people who knew him, people who could just be happy being there. There were no real sides, no winners and losers. Just a game.

The last threads of golden sunlight died away, and a waning moon hung a blue mist on the field below them. Harry had but a second to note a few balls of blue light that dotted the grass along with the blink of fireflies, but he hadn't the time to ask what had conjured them. He pulled up, barely a few meters from Ginny, now. In the game, the ones to be chased tended to vary. Sometimes, when he tagged Ginny, she'd chase Fred or George instead, and Ron would take after Harry. Until now, as she glanced back at him with a challenging laugh, he hadn't realized that anytime he'd been caught up to, he took the game full circle and returned to Ginny again. She was making it harder for him this time, taking her broom higher and higher. The temperature was dropping, and Harry could feel gentle moisture clutching at his cheeks. Ginny looked back again as she leveled, realizing he was coming up next to her, but she did not act immediately. He had a moment to note how the moonlight cast a cool shade on her; even her fiery red Weasley hair appeared calmer.

Taking his opening as he had it, Harry reached out to touch her arm. The motion startled her, and she jerked away. Fearing she might lose her balance, his hand shot out faster, and he caught her wrist to pull her back. She grasped the neck of her broom with her free hand, face and ears shading a soft pink; it reminded him of how she'd behaved her first year at school, before the mechanizations of Tom Riddle dictated her actions, anyhow. "Thank you," she said breathlessly.

Harry smirked. "Your turn," he said, and he dove again.

He followed the dotted lights down, reveling at the wind whistling in his ears, coming down, down, finally screeching to a stop when he found that the rest of the group was hovering quite still. At first he suspected they were waiting for him and Ginny to come back down, but as he heard her come up behind him with a swoop, he realized they were staring grimly off into the dark and away from the Burrow. A fleeting look at Molly and Arthur told him they were doing the same.

Turning to Ron, he spoke. "What is it?"

"Shh!" Ron, looking paler than Harry had seen him in a long time, pointed out across the field again. "Listen."

His breath stopped as his eyes followed them, squinting in the dark, though Ron's indication told him that there was nothing really to see at all. The night was filled with the familiar noises. He could hear an owl in the distance over the whirr of insects and frogs. With the din, he wondered what there was to hear if it was so far away they could not see it. He looked at the twins, opening his mouth to speak again, and the attempt died in his throat before air was even drawn.

A sound rolled in on the breeze like a storm cloud. When the first cry reached his ears, he thought it the howl of a dog, or a wolf, but he realized it was too high-pitched, almost a moan. The longer it drawled on, the higher the sound rose. A keen. A wail. Harry felt icily the fairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up despite the heat, thinking grimly that it sounded almost human.

"What...?"

"A Banshee, no doubt," George murmured.

Ron turned in place to look back at him. "This far east again?"

Arthur's voice was faint over a particularly insistant croak of a nearby toad. "It's late, and the guard will be here soon. Let's all go inside for now."

Given the most eerie disruption of their game, none of the children objected. Sullenly, each landed and trudged back into the firelit house, Arthur waiting at the door to usher each and every one inside before shutting the door behind them. He sat quietly at the kitchen table while Molly clattered about the kitchen in a distracted manner.

Harry exchanged glimpses with Ron and his siblings. Fred and George waved at the lot of them to follow them upstairs, and understanding, each trailed after them up to their old room. Their beds still waited, dressed, the room kept tidy and hopeful for occupancy by their mother. Fred bolted the door and motioned for everyone to sit down somewhere. Harry, not wanting to put anyone off from a place on one of the two mattresses, settled on the floor near the foot of one.

"Best to let Mum and Dad alone a while, I think," he said, then turned toward Ron. "Has this happened a lot since we left?"

Ron shook his head. "No."

Ginny agreed. "No Banshees."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Has this happened before?"

Fred nodded, continuing to speak in a hushed tone. "Most I can remember unless it happened again while we were at school we heard one last summer, too, just before we went to stay at Grimmauld Place."

Ron looked sadly down at his hands. "Mum panicked; Percy'd just walked out on us, and she kept begging Dad to go and find him. Turned out he was fine, but it took forever to get her calm again. It might be a bit touchy even now, a year later. So yeah. Best not to make the matter worse."

George stood with his ear to the door, listening possibly for the sound of voices. The house was completely silent for a moment, and with a shift, Harry remembered the newspaper article again, and the thought wouldn't leave him alone. He realized the lot of them would probably hear later anyway, and a subject changer seemed the thing. Besides, he did not know how much time he had before the guard arrived.

"Listen," he said. "I've been thinking a lot since you showed me the newspaper, Fred George. About Malfoy."

Ron hitched in a breath, looking morose as he fought back a reflexive snort at the mention of their longtime enemy. By the frown there, Harry knew he'd read the article too. And Ginny.

There were downcast eyes all around. It never occurred to Harry that his closer friends would probably respond to the news with mixed feelings just as he had. "Am I bad for not wanting to feel sorry for him?"

"Of course not," Ron returned, though one could tell he couldn't raise his voice to the proper level of indignation he was searching for. He was quiet, hesitant even. "He never gave you much pity for your parents, did he?"

"But it's not something to wish on anyone," Ginny added.

"And I don't," insisted Harry, blanching. Being unsure of his feelings, it was twice as difficult to form any sort of explanation. He glowered to himself. "But I can't help but think he had it coming."

Fred sounded troubled, but he did not look up at him. "Harry, that isn't the type of thing you do to people to give 'em just desserts. Turning him and his cronies into snails, maybe, but..."

"I _know,_" he ground out. "But was it fair for him or anyone to mock my mother for being who she was and how she died?"

He could practically feel Ron wince in the bed next to him. "No one is saying it was fair, Harry."

_Hermione would say I was only sinking to his level,_ Harry thought, but he shook the idea away. He chose not to speak more on it, seeing that this could only turn into something likened to the shouting matches he had been prone to the year before, and with effort he bottled his frustration inside. He could feel his hands shaking.

"I'm only making the evening worse," he uttered, managing a half-hearted smile with the subject change. He looked up at Fred and George, then back at Ron and Ginny. "The game was good while it lasted."

Ron nodded. "It's not your fault it ended like that. We'll do it again sometime."

TO BE CONTINUED…


End file.
